Burning House
by Ly Merrick
Summary: During the summer before their senior year, Quinn's home life isn't so good. Santana takes her in. Strong feelings start to develop. What then? Quinntana, multi-chapter
1. Stay Away

**Title:** Burning House

**Pairing:** Quinn/Santana

**Synopsis: **During the summer before senior year, Quinn's home life is troubled. Santana takes her in. Neither expects to develop feelings - sometimes these things just happen.

**Warning:** This chapter contains possibly triggering themes of violence and child abuse.

**Author's Note: Chapter 1 of 7!** Lyrics from my very favorite riot grrl band, Sleater-Kinney (long live S-K!) from their song titled "Funeral Song." I'm excited about this. I'm not expecting that much traffic, I know Quinntana isn't very popular but I always felt there was an unexplored possibility and the road not taken always pulls me in. [* indicates traditional Santeria terminology. In this chapter, Olorun is the name of God, and a Babalocha is a traditional Priest in Santeria practice, and they often serve as healers.]

###

Chapter 1: **Stay Away**

_Stay away from the haunted heart _

_You swore to yourself that you'd make a new start_

_But you just love the demon with the poison dart._

###

The first night that Quinn called, the Puerto Rican had been making dinner with her grandmother. It was tradition. On Friday nights after she and her _abuela_ arrived from the _Botanica _for Saturday night's ritual supplies,they made dinner for the rest of the family. Saturday nights, nights that Santana usually wasn't around, some of the family went to drumming rituals. Her family practiced Santeria; her mother was a quarter African and three-quarters Puerto Rican, her father Puerto-Rican, and the general belief was that the family had always practiced Santeria.

Santana, however, didn't make a practice of going to the drumming rituals. As a little girl she'd always thought they were fun, but when her mother offered herself over to the Orisha and started speaking in a different voice, she tended to get out of going to the rituals. Now that she was older, she understood it was only a trance-like state induced by the drumming, but she wasn't particularly involved with the religion. She didn't really advertise that her family practiced Santeria, either.

Quinn called the first Friday in June. It had surprised Santana, mostly because Quinn didn't make it a habit to call during the summer.

"Hey Q, can I call you back? I'm making dinner with _Abuela. _Friday nights, you know." Santana started slicing up the tomato in front of her while Abuela swayed her hips to the music on the FM radio she kept on the counter; the thing must have been from the 70's, but she'd always insisted it was the best radio she'd ever had.

Over the receiver she could hear some hazardous breathing and sniffling, "I-it's kind of an emergency, Santana, can you just ... " In the background, Santana heard something shatter and the loud thud of wood against plaster.

"_Tu Papa?" _Santana asked, quietly, as the knife stilled on the counter and she motioned for her abuela to take over. "Do you need me to come get you?"

"Please."

"I'll be there in ten." Santana didn't really know how she'd get Quinn out of the house, until she heard her older cousin Omar laughing raucously in the livingroom. "With help." Before Quinn could protest, Santana cut her off, "Stay safe, Q. I'm coming." She hung up the phone and quickly explained everything to her abuela, darted into the livingroom and grabbed Omar by the wrist. The darker boy looked confused.

"_Te necesito. _My friend is in trouble." Santana explained as she dragged him out of the door, snatching her keys on the way and all but running to her car. Omar was quick behind, climbing into the passenger's seat and buckling in just in time for Santana's tires to burn rubber across the asphalt.

The Latina had to figure out a game-plan before they got there. Russell Fabray had always suffered from a wicked hot temper, especially when he started drinking his Scotch at night. His wife was just as bad, sans the temper, because most of the time she was too drunk to do anything to protect her daughter. Quinn always managed to stay out of the way, but Santana had a feeling that this was worse than usual. Santana's hands shook a little as she left the car running in the drive. Omar climbed out and followed Santana up to the front door.

To knock or not to knock. Steeling her nerves, Santana twisted the handle, found it to be unlocked, and stepped right into the foyer. The Fabray house could easily be called a manor. It was spotless - except for a spilled glass of wine next to Mrs. Fabray's sleeping body. Santana wasn't sure where she could find Quinn, and Omar rolled up his sleeves tensely, prepared to protect his cousin at all costs. Her legs shook from the bottom up - it felt like she was embodying an earthquake but as she listened for a hint of Quinn in danger, she heard a thud upstairs. She reacted instantaneously, bolting up the stairs. Quinn's door was ajar but her room stood empty. Russell's loud voice boomed down the hallway from the master bedroom.

"Who'd you call?" Russell shouted, and a harsh slap rang through the door before Santana pushed the door open. Quinn lay on the floor with a split lip and a bruised cheekbone, and who knows what other injuries (with the way she was cradling her stomach).

"_Le peg__ó__,_" Santana instructed Omar, and he did so. He tapped Russell on the shoulder, and when the red-faced tyrant turned around, Omar caught him with a strong right-hook that potentially dislocated his jaw. The man's arms flailed a little as he stumbled backward (barely missing Quinn), and Omar didn't give him a chance to retaliate. A swift left-hook from Omar ended the confrontation, Russell tumbling to the floor and striking his elbow on the corner of the desk.

The muscular Latino knelt down and picked Quinn Fabray up before she realized anyone was even there. She flinched and fought the grasp of the strange man, until she realized Santana was standing beside him.

Not one to leave without a mark, Santana saw the beaten form that was her closest friend and decided to take action for herself. She motioned to Omar with a nod of her head and a click of her tongue. He took the signal and disappeared with Quinn, cradling her carefully. Santana strode over to Russell, knelt over him, and dug her knee into his chest just below his ribs. She pressed, and pressed, until she heard Russell wheezing.

"You could die this way. I could stay this way until all the air is gone from your lungs and you'd never hurt her again. You're drunk wife might not protect her, but I sure as fuck will," her voice was full of venom, and she felt Russell stir and saw his angry gaze. He didn't fight her, but pushed on her knee as if to relieve the pressure. Santana dug her knee harder and caught his thumb, bent it backward until he relented and flattened his hands. His face began to turn red; in retrospect, Santana would realize this was the only time she'd felt truly capable of killing a man. "You will never lay another hand on that girl, and if you do, there'll be hell to pay, _cobarde._" As she stood, she nudged his knee away from the other, examined for a moment, and landed a hard kick right to his testicles.

Defeated, Russell groaned and rolled over onto his side.

Satisfied, Santana left the Fabray house that night feeling vindicated in Quinn's honor. She also swiped Judy Fabray's wine and smashed it on the front door of the Fabray's home, wine trickling down onto the porch. In some way, it was a sign that this house was cursed, and the people within weren't human. _Stay away, _the smashed glass on the porch would warn to passers by.

###

As Santana returned to the home of her abuela, she took the keys from Omar and sighed. She couldn't take Quinn in there like this; her friend would never forgive her for letting her dirty laundry air in front of the whole Lopez family. "Omar, I'm going to take her back to my house. Tell everyone I'm sorry I have to miss dinner. Tell Abuela I'll make it up to her." Omar nodded, squeezed Santana's shoulder. "Thank you," she stated in a quieter voice.

"_De nada, _little cousin. You can't help it you're a weakling," he teased in an attempt to lighten her mood. Santana rolled her eyes, but managed a grateful smile. As Omar got out of the driver's side and went into the house, Santana climbed over the partition and got in the driver's side, home-bound.

Quinn had fallen asleep sometime after they pulled out of her driveway, but when they arrived at Santana's much more humble home, the Latina saw a pair of hazel eyes looking at her in the rear-view mirror.

"Hey sunshine," Santana greeted warmly as she unbuckled herself and got out of the car, opening Quinn's door for her and helping the blonde out of the car. "Is anything broken?"

Quinn shook her head, "Sprained my ankle though," she admitted as she limped onto the sidewalk. Santana gently wrapped an arm around her waist, studying her with a mixture of concern and anger in her eyes.

The Puerto Rican decided it best not to start cursing Russell Fabray right now, instead coaxing Quinn as she kicked the car door shut, "Lean on me. I got you." Together they made the trek into Santana's home and to her room; the Latina's room was a converted sunroom. Windows lined the entire room, but thick shades were drawn over them all. Stairs lead to the laundry room and basement, so sometimes Santana's room was a bit high-traffic for a bedroom. Not allowing Quinn to argue, she carried Quinn in her arms and carried her the rest of the way to the bed.

Santana had a lot of questions. Namely, what the fuck had gotten Russell so violent this evening, and why? She wanted to ask Quinn if she was alright, ask her how she was feeling, but Santana wasn't much of a counselor and frankly she sucked with words. Instead, she took care of Quinn the only way she knew how. She climbed into bed next to Quinn and wrapped her arms delicately around the blonde girl.

Quinn accepted the comfort, and the Latina was kind enough to pretend Quinn wasn't crying into her shirt. Soothing her hands slowly up and down Quinn's back, she closed her eyes and hushed her silently. "I got you, Q. You're safe now. Santana's got you."

A little while later, when Quinn had gone silent and still, Santana's mother poked her head in the doorway and when she saw the beaten blonde she assumed she was asleep. Santana wasn't sure if she was. Either way, she made a motion for her mother to close the door and turn off the light.

Santana felt fingers at her waist, felt them tighten as Quinn shifted herself slightly closer. The warmth of Quinn was kind of nice. She felt the girl bury her head against her chest, and Santana sifted her fingers carefully through Quinn's hair. In part, she was looking for any sign of possible concussions or injuries to her friend's head. She didn't know what injuries she'd accrued during Russell's fit of rage. The bastard. Santana wouldn't let it happen again.

She wasn't good with the comfort thing, usually, but as Quinn lay silently against her, she thought maybe she wasn't doing such a bad job this time.

###

In the morning, when Santana awoke, she panicked. Quinn was gone. Possibilities flooded through her mind and she all but jumped out of bed, "_Mama! _Where's Quinn at?" She threw her door open, "Don't tell me you let her go back home! I swear to Olorun*, if you - "

"_Mija, _you can't possibly think I'm that stupid," Santana's mother greeted her with a kiss to the cheek, a traditional Puerto Rican family greeting, and headed into the livingroom with what looked like a cold compress. "I got your friend up so I could tend to her injuries. The Babalocha* came over with some sage and incense to bless your friend." Santana followed looked better and there was minimal swelling of her lip. Her mother had apparently had the Babalocha make a salve to heal any cuts and wounds, and topped off the healing process with a cold compress for her sprained ankle.

Quinn was watching Dora the Explorer with Santana's little brother, Cruz, and noticed Santana's entrance after the Latina's mother moved out of the way. The six-year-old was making a mess on the coffee table in front of Quinn, enthralled with the television - so enthralled, in fact, that he didn't notice he was spilling milk down his pajama shirt.

"Cruz, you're making a mess," Santana groaned softly and wiped his face with the paper towel laying next to his glass of juice. The boy mumbled 'buenos días' through a spoonful of Captain Crunch.

"Ay, leave your brother alone," her mother chimed from the kitchen.

Quinn shifted her good foot out of the way, drawing her knee upward, and Santana sat down in the square of space next to Quinn's bad leg. Her dark eyes went to Quinn's ankle; she gently peeled the compress away from her ankle to see the swelling and bruising. Thankfully, it wasn't that bad. Satisfied, she smirked a little and dropped the compress purposefully on her friend's ankle.

Quinn groaned and laughed a little, "Thanks," she murmured.

"_De nada, _blondie. How're you feeling?" Santana asked, smile fading a little as she met Quinn's eyes. She'd never really been afraid for Quinn before now. It was a little eye-opening. She found herself wanting to grasp Quinn's hand, but resisted (with some effort). Worry stung her memory.

"I'm okay," Quinn nodded. "Your family's been really kind, and that priest guy .. he seemed to mean well."

"Babalocha. He's like .. well, yeah, he's like a priest."

"Is your family Catholic?" Quinn inquired curiously. Santeria resembled Catholicism, but it was far too African to be mistaken for it in practice.

Santana shook her head, "No. They practice Santeria. It's like a mixture of Catholicism and Bantu religion. My mom's part African. The whole family practices, except me." Not many people knew this, and it's not that Santana was ashamed, it just wasn't an easy religion to explain. To outsiders, it looked frightening in practice. Sometimes they sacrificed chickens, literally. It all had a ritual purpose, but in Western society they just didn't accept such concepts so easily.

Quinn only nodded, seemed satisfied, "Who's Babalz Ayi?"

"St. Lazarus. Patron saint of the sick. The Babalocha invokes him to help heal the wounded and sick."

Another nod. That was as far as the questions went, because they went back to watching Dora with Cruz enthusiastically shouting the answers to Dora. Cruz spoke primarily Spanish; Santana's whole family did. In school, though, the boy spoke English. Santana was the only member of the family that spoke English more than she spoke Spanish. None of it seemed to bother Quinn.

"Thank you," the words came during a commercial, when everyone was distracted, and Santana found Quinn looking at her with a thick haze of emotion. The Latina wasn't sure how to handle the attention, so she nodded. Apparently not satisfied with the response, Quinn almost made Santana jump when she touched her hand and covered it with her own. The Latina's eyes darted around the livingroom and to the kitchen door. She responded with a slight quickness, squeezing Quinn's hand. She didn't want to, but she let go gently. She did, however, leave her hand on Quinn's ankle as she gently lifted it into her lap in order to sit against the back of the couch. Sometimes her thumb would brush the soft skin over Quinn's ankle and they would meet understanding gazes.

They never really discussed how long Quinn would be staying, but Santana wasn't about to let Quinn leave anytime soon. Her mother didn't seem to mind the extra company, and her father wasn't home very often anyway.

###

"I'm surprised you and Brittany aren't attached at the hip," Quinn questioned softly, as if knowing it was a sensitive topic right now. "I figured with summer you'd be inseperable."

Santana shook her head. The hurt was deep, but old, and she was at a point she could talk about it. It wasn't exactly a conversation she wanted to have before she fell asleep, but nonetheless she wasn't going to lie to Quinn. "She wanted to hook up with Artie," she explained, "Britt wanted something I didn't know if I could give her, and I didn't know if I was ready for everyone to know. She deserves someone who's proud to be with her. Artie is."

Understanding hazel eyes unwaveringly studied her, and as Santana glanced over in the dark, she found them almost too intense to handle. She rolled on her side, her back to Quinn. She couldn't handle the bearing of her most secret pains. Thankfully, Quinn took the hint and changed the subject.

"Your family ... they're really great. Cruz is adorable."

"Yeah," Santana smirked, picking at the wall. "He's not a bad kid. Little hyper sometimes."

"I think all boys are," Quinn chuckled a little, and it was a welcome sound. The blonde touched Santana's shoulder; it surprised the Latina, because she felt all her muscles tense up. She had never known Quinn to be so hands-on when she interacted with people. Maybe it was gratitude.

"Sorry," Santana mumbled an apology, ashamed of her reactions. Truthfully, the last person she'd allowed to touch her at all was Brittany. Even in a platonic way. However, Quinn didn't seem offended. She merely stroked Santana's shoulderblade until the Latina's muscles eased and the contact began to feel truly comforting. Santana swallowed down a knot in her throat as the touch brought up old longings and feelings; being alone had always been her biggest fear. Santana cursed herself for being stuck in her head when Quinn needed her protection.

Quinn stayed silent. "I think you probably saved my life, you and ... that really muscular guy. Who was that?"

"My cousin, Omar. I knew I couldn't take Russell alone even if I was pissed off and scared for you." Santana slowly shifted as Quinn's hand dropped away. She rolled back onto her back and her eyes studied the moonlit ceiling. "He's a nice guy."

The blonde beside her chuckled, "He seems like he and Puck would get along well, with a right-hook like that." She shared a knowing gaze with the Latina beside her.

Smirking, Santana nodded almost happily.

Even in the dark, she could see Quinn's expression sober, and her eyes seemed to shimmer a little more than normal. The blonde sucked on her bottom lip as if she was hesitant to ask for anything.

"Q?"

Tears became visible. Santana almost panicked. She didn't know how to comfort Quinn, how to make it better. She really _sucked _at this stuff and she wished she was better at it, if only for Quinn. "I'm scared."

"Of what?"

"If he finds me. Or you."

"Shh," Santana hushed softly. "He's not gonna. Besides, if he does, Santana's got this shit handled, alright?"

Quinn nodded. She'd always been so tough, often stoic. Santana had always admired her invulnerability; this Quinn was kind of new to her. Even when the blonde had been pregnant she hadn't allowed herself to be truly vulnerable in front of anyone - except Berry, who had this weird way of getting people to be all soft. Santana reached under the covers, found a trembling hand, and took it in her own. In the darkness of her room, it was alright. Quinn turned at that moment, hands joined and pressed between them, and buried her head against Santana's shoulder. "Is it okay if you hold me?" She didn't stammer, but Santana could hear the nerves shaking underneath Quinn's words. As an answer, she wrapped her free arm around Quinn's hips and pulled her in.

"Duh," Santana murmured. The veiled affection gave Quinn permission to scoot as close as possible, and she did. The blonde's breath was warm against Santana's collarbone. She wondered when the last time was that Quinn felt safe. The Latina hoped she could communicate to her that she was safe with her.

Everyone thought Santana was the devil. She made sure of it. The thing was, people were precious. She didn't think she was good enough not to hurt them with her sarcasm and tendency to fly off the handle. Until she'd become a cheerleader and joined glee club and all that bullshit, she hadn't really thought of herself as someone who could even _pretend _to be a "people" person. Very few people knew her at all. She was venomous and vengeful and dangerous.

Right now though, she wasn't dangerous. She wasn't a living weapon or a vessel for social revenge. She was a human being who was turning out not to be so bad at this whole compassion thing. The Latina found herself holding on to Quinn carefully, but with as much necessity as Quinn had.

"You know, S, you're not as bad as you want the world to think," the words were a warm cascade flowing down her collarbone and shivering their way all the way down to her toes. Quinn's hand squeezed Santana's from between them.

"Shut the fuck up," Santana teased softly. "Go to sleep, Q, or I'll have to find a muzzle."

"You would."

"Damn straight."


	2. Turn Out the Light

**Title**: Burning House

**Pairing**: Quinn/Santana

**Chapter Synopsis**: (2 of 7) Santana's family reaches out to ask for protection for Quinn, and despite Santana's reservations, the ritual turns out to be a boon for the both of them. Growing closer to the blonde through her family's religion wasn't exactly what she'd expected, but it may not be so bad.

**Author's Note**: Lyrics from my very favorite riot grrl band, Sleater-Kinney (long live S-K!) from their song titled "Funeral Song." This fic contains references and a context of an Afro-Cuban religion called Santeria. I'm not an expert or even a practitioner of Santeria; while I've done a fair amount of research on it during my high school and college careers, I by no means claim that I know much of anything. My intention is not to misrepresent anything within this complex and beautiful religion. It's something I want to explore, a different kind of background for a character that doesn't often get much of a background story at all. I hope you all enjoy the further Quinntana adventures. :)

2. **Nothing Left to See**

_There's nothing left to see_

_Turn out the light_

_There's nothing left to see_

_Turn out the light_

"She must come," Abuela was insisting. They were to have a ritual that evening called up specifically for Quinn's protection. All of Santana's childhood training told her _not _to disagree with Abuela, but she didn't know whether it was a good idea to involve Quinn in a ritual that was foreign and potentially frightening to an outsider. "In order to petition Ochosi and Oggun she must partake. She may be a _gringa _and be blind to our world but she must be there." Abuela gave the table a firm pat before standing. "No argument, Santana. None."

Ever the obedient granddaughter, Santana only nodded her head and stood from the table. "We'll be there."

"You and she must go buy three things," Abuela turned around, tightening the white shawl around her shoulders. She always looked like a matriarch, always looked like an ancient woman who could explain the world with only a glance in your direction. "A chicken foot," when Santana gave a noise in protest, Abuela clicked her tongue and her eyes grew fierce, "a chicken foot freshly removed, a bottle of red wine, and a blue ribbon measuring three inches."

Great. How exactly would she explain to her very white, non-Santerian friend that they needed to find a freshly slaughtered chicken and bag its foot? Keeping her dissent to herself, Santana nodded once more and took note of everything.

"We begin tonight. 8pm. Be sure you arrive in simple clothing, and do not wear the color green."

Santana didn't always understand the directions her Abuela gave her, but she was a highly venerated woman within the community and knew that if anything, it was better to go along with her Abuela than displease her.

Quinn had been standing in the doorway apparently, because as Abuela left, light footsteps approached behind Santana. "I don't really have any simple clothing."

The Latina jumped at the sound of her friend's voice. "It's my _abuela. _They ... they're doing a ritual to ask for your protection. Ochosi and Oggun protect people, make them invisible to the law or in your case, someone who is above the law. Someone who wishes to hurt you." She saw a completely open gaze directed at her as she leaned against the kitchen counter.

"Does that stuff bother you?" Quinn's question was genuine and straight to the point. The blonde could certainly read her emotions.

"No, I mean I don't really ... partake in it, you know."

"Then why are you so worried?" Quinn's voice was always so soft, and it grounded Santana. "I think it's really kind of them, to offer help like that."

"It doesn't bother you?" She was a little bewildered, watching the blonde stir her newly brewed hot tea. "I don't want you to think we're… weird, or that I'm weird. Or whatever."

Quinn laughed. It was an earthy sound, almost a chuckle, "It really doesn't. It's more than anyone else has offered me. Besides, they're doing the thing that … I don't know, that they feel will help me the most. That says a lot about how much they care about me, or at least someone in trouble."

Sometimes Santana forgot how kind Quinn could be – it was hard to always see beyond the ice queen that Quinn pretended to be at school. While the girl had softened up considerably, there was an air of superiority and aloofness that said nobody could touch Quinn and nobody should try to touch her. Quinn, however much she tried to keep people away with a false air of judgment, didn't actually spend any time judging people who were genuinely good people. Quinn was complex and hard to figure out.

"She wants us to wear simple clothing. Generally the colors white and yellow are good, but I guess white would be best."

"I don't really have anything," Quinn frowned a little, looking genuinely concerned.

Santana gestured dismissively, "I have a dress you can wear. We're not that different in size," she moved forward, touching Quinn's hips as if examining them. "It should work," she ignored the tingling as she felt Quinn briefly touch her arms as if to protect herself from coming to harm. The blonde must've reacted instinctively to being touched. Withdrawing her touch, Santana met Quinn's eyes.

She really did need any help she could get, anything to make her feel safe. Santana wanted Quinn to feel safe. "Sorry," Quinn murmured, as if caught. "I just… it's a habit."

Santana thought how lonely it must be to always keep people at arm's length. She smirked, nudging Quinn as lightly as possible, "Come on, let's see if the dress I have will work." The blonde beside her relaxed a little and Santana could hear her footsteps just behind her.

Quinn sat down on the bed as the Latina ruffled through her closet. Near the back, she found a dress from a couple years ago, a simple white one she wore at some of the rituals when she was obligated to go. She'd since gotten a different one, a white one with a different cut, but hadn't had cause to use it. She laid both garments out on the bed.

"You pick it out. Probably better energy or whatever."

The blonde picked out Santana's old one, which was probably a good sign because it had at one time been something endowed with a lot of luck – not that she still believed in all that. At least not that much. She nodded approvingly.

"So the ritual tonight, it's just like a blessing ceremony. I'm pretty sure all you have to do is wait for the opening ceremony then they'll bring you into the middle of the drumming circle and you just have to sit there and be pretty," Santana couldn't think of anything particular Quinn would have to do. "If you feel uncomfortable though, just reach out for me and I'll come sit by you. It can get a little intense and loud. I mean it's supposed to, with the drumming and all."

Quinn gave a soft smile, "Thank you," her hazel eyes glimmered as they rested on Santana's. "I mean it. I mean… if it weren't for you I wouldn't be safe. I wouldn't…" some darkness, some shadow lingered in her expression.

Santana merely hushed her, nudged the girl, "You always have me," she promised solemnly and offered her pinky. They pinky swore, kissed their respective hands, and a calm settled over them. "Now for the part I hate. We have to go shopping for the ritual things."

She really hated this part.

###

It turned out that Quinn wasn't super squeamish, which was good. In fact, she was the one who bagged up the fresh chicken's foot; Santana felt a little queasy because she'd gotten too good of a look behind the butcher's counter. They walked arm and arm, down the street, with the little chicken's foot stowed safely in a brown paper bag.

"Now she said a bottle of red wine, which I'll have to get from Bolero's, because we're underage and that'll be the only place we can buy alcohol. And uh, a three inch long blue ribbon."

"Are the lists always this obscure?" Quinn grinned just a bit, glancing at her friend carefully.

Santana nodded, "Yeah, pretty much. I mean, I never understood it but usually they all have some kind of significance. Like the chicken stands as an offering, a gesture from the ones asking for protection that they're willing to sacrifice for this. The red wine is the same. Spirits like spirits."

Quinn snorted in amusement.

"And the blue ribbon," Santana smirked and nudged Quinn a little bit, "probably means something symbolic. Protection or something? Healing? I'm not sure."

Apparently Quinn found this all terribly interesting. She seemed to take up buying the items with a kind of fervor, and paid for the wine herself. The blonde was so charming that the owner of Bolero's had even offered them a second bottle of wine for half off.

Santana tended to fall under that charm as well. A couple times on the way back to Santana's house, she found herself blushing because Quinn said something particularly sweet about her. Santana Lopez never blushed.

###

Getting ready for the ritual, Santana had thought it was potentially a bad idea to make Quinn come to this. It was a totally foreign world, what could she possibly think? It was a secret kind of world that not many people were allowed to see, much less participate in, and it was something that might make Quinn run away and never come back.

However, as she watched Quinn smile as she was pulled into the ritual space, she felt a little relieved. The blonde had seemed enthralled with everything – the unusual smells, sights, the intense drumming – and Santana supposed it was hard not to be when these types of ceremonies tended to make the air kind of electric with enthusiasm. She stood back a bit, watching as the ribbon was wrapped around sage and the chicken's foot, and wine was poured around Quinn in a circle. Abuela lead the ceremony, and she had the audience enthralled.

Santana remembered a time when she believed in all of this, and a pang of nostalgia came. It had been easier then, to feel safe and protected when you had that kind of supernatural belief in power and forces within our control. The Latina saw Quinn glance over at her, and as things got more intense it seemed Quinn looked over more. When Abuela pulled Quinn to her feet, the blonde reached a hand out and locked gazes with Santana.

Without hesitation, Santana moved through the circle (careful not to disturb any ritual items laid in the space) and took Quinn's hand. There was only the closing prayers now, which were performed by those asking for assistance. Abuela kneeled before two small statues, and the drumming slowed and eventually ceased. Quinn had wrapped her arms around Santana and held herself near. It was hard not to embrace that warmth, to feel how nice it was to have someone want her to hold them.

"Were you afraid?" Santana asked as the ritual space was closed, and the participants filed out. All that was left was herself and Abuela.

Quinn glanced up, "No, not exactly. It felt … intense. I suppose. I don't know why I reached for you, but I just needed to."

Abuela left the candles that were to be burned overnight, and left the partially empty bottle of wine on the altar. She came to the girls and touched both their shoulders. The pair split and Santana watched her abuela carefully.

"Your blessing has been answered but not as I expected," the woman informed Quinn. Santana was about to ask what she meant, but her grandmother didn't give her time, "it seems God has spoken through you," her aged hand touched Santana's. "You are the means to safety and the means of protection. Ochosi means to tell you that you are chosen to keep this one safe."

Santana felt a little confused and a bit more than skeptical. She'd intended to do that anyway, but thinking that somehow some invisible god had moved Quinn to reach for her? And that was the means of a message?

However, in the world her abuela lived, everything meant something significant.

The Latina nodded, and felt Quinn's hand squeeze her arm a little. Quinn was smiling at her gratefully with a look of absolute trust. This was her friend. Of course it was her job to keep Quinn safe.

"Now, I have dinner to make and you girls have chores to do," Abuela moved immediately from the realm of the spiritual into the realm of the actual, patting both girls as she passed them.

Quinn laughed at the sudden switch.

"Now if I'm going to be your body guard you're going to have to pay me," Santana teased as she followed the blonde out of the room.

"I'm sure we can work something out," Quinn glanced back, arching an eyebrow. It was a flirtatious look that made Santana's heart flutter. The Latina played it cool by shoving Quinn's shoulder lightly.

"How do I know I'll like your offer?"

"Oh, you will," Quinn narrowed her eyes lightly as she reached back, catching Santana's arm and bringing the brunette to her side. "I'll make sure of it."

That night, when Santana crawled into bed, she felt Quinn scoot closer. The Latina felt a warm rush as she turned the light off and Quinn seized the opportunity to slip her arm over Santana's stomach. For a moment, she swore she felt eyes on her but there was nothing to see in the dark. She closed her eyes, slipping a hand over Quinn's arm and feeling a responding squeeze at her side.

She'd figure out what it meant to be Quinn's protector tomorrow. For now, it was nice to share the darkness of her room with Quinn.


End file.
